The Burial Place

by Larry Enmon

  No one said a word. They were shaking too much to talk. They just wanted to get out of the wind and inside a warm car. Sarge blew on his hands and rubbed them.

  “Okay, hit the street. I’ll let you know when Frank starts his ride.”

  Everyone broke up, two to a car, and rolled out of the lot.

  “Frank, come with me.” Sarge motioned.

  They sat in Sarge’s car. He opened a green thermos, poured coffee into two Styrofoam cups, and handed one to Frank. Sarge blew the edge of the cup for a second and tried a sip.

  “Damn, that’s good.” He inspected Frank. “You got everything?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” Frank said.

  “We’ll see you when you pick her up. Don’t hurry to whatever place she’s directing you. Give us a chance to get into position. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Frank tried his coffee.

  Sarge studied him. “If anything feels bad—abort. Don’t push it if it doesn’t feel right. We can get them tomorrow, or the next day. Know what I mean?” Sarge nodded his head.

  Frank really didn’t understand what the big deal was. Sarge was acting strange today, and this wasn’t even a high-risk operation. Frank had been in a lot worse situations with Sarge before but had never seen him this worked up. Something was different about this deal.

  “I got this.” Frank sipped his coffee.

  After the fact, Sarge told him he’d known something was going to go haywire but couldn’t put his finger on what. Sarge had the gift most supervisors dreamed of: a sixth sense. The thing about having a gift like that—you had to listen to it.

  “Okay, watch the bitch’s hands. If you can’t see her hands, then your shit’s about to get real flaky,” Sarge said.

  Frank finished his coffee and touched the door handle.

  “Hold up.” Sarge grabbed his arm, then keyed his police radio. “All units report.”

  All six cars confirmed they were in position and had an eyeball on the street.

  Sarge patted Frank’s shoulder. “Go get ’em, Tiger.”

  Frank climbed in his undercover pickup truck and switched the heater on high. His feet were freezing. The windshield fogged and he waited until the defroster cleared it. Everyone but him had left the lot. A nervous churn rumbled through his midsection, but he put it out of his mind.

  He eased onto Grand and crossed under the I-45 and Central Expressway interchange. When he got to Malcolm X Boulevard, the light was green, so he turned left. He drove well below the speed limit in the right lane. The rain had almost stopped, but the wind blew hard from the north.

  By the time he got to Oak, he’d not seen one pedestrian, much less a whore. He did a U-turn and started down the other side of Malcolm X. This had to be the biggest waste of time in his career. As that thought cleared his mind, he crossed Martin Luther King Boulevard and saw a girl standing at the favorite hooker stop on the street. Any gal out in this weather had to be starving, or have a pimp who’d threatened her with death. Or maybe—

  She looked as if she were in her early twenties, but with all the clothes and hood, she might have been older.

  Frank pulled to the curb and rolled down his window. She lowered her umbrella and her brown eyes sparkled. She was very young, just out of her teens.

  “Need a lift?” Frank asked.

  “Sure.” She jumped into the seat beside him, and he pulled into traffic.

  He asked, “You a working girl?”

  She lowered her hood. Her mahogany skin glowed. “Sure am. Interested?”

  “How much for a half and half?” Frank asked.

  She shook her head. “If you want me to drop these jeans in this weather, it’ll cost you a hundred.”

  “Lot of money for just a half and half.”

  She frowned. “I might do it for ninety, but no lower.”

  Frank glanced in his rear mirror. No sign of a vehicle following. If this was a Crip girl, they wouldn’t let her get too far away. It didn’t matter. He already had his prostitution case made. Once she’d agreed to perform a sex act for money and set the price, she’d crossed the line. He didn’t see any of his guys following either, but if he saw them, they weren’t covert enough.

  “I can spend ninety if it’s good,” Frank said.

  She reached over and caressed his crotch. “Mine’s like honey.” She nudged closer. Her hands circled his waist in a sweet embrace, but there was nothing sweet about it. She had experience and used the hug to make sure he wasn’t armed. Frank had hid his pistol, badge, and radio under the seat before leaving the briefing site.

  “You have a place we can go?” he asked.

  “Uh-huh.” She pointed. “Keep going straight. I’ll tell you when to turn.”

  Frank searched his side mirror. If he was being followed, he didn’t see them. They drove to Hatcher Street and she motioned left. As he made the turn, he still saw no one tailing them.

  She waved her finger. “Turn right just past this school.”

  When he made the turn, a sign welcomed them to Butler Nelson Park. Dozens of old headstones on each side of the one-lane dirt road, now muddy from the steady rain, seemed a bad omen.

  “We’re going to do it in a cemetery?” he asked.

  She laughed. “Why not? Nobody out on a day like this to disturb us. Drive all the way to the end.”

  Frank didn’t see a soul in his rear or side mirrors. Where is my cover? This thing wasn’t going as planned. Sarge had said if it felt wrong, abort. He had to make a decision soon—he was running out of road. Most of the trees were stripped clean of leaves, with a few live oaks and pines giving what little color there was to the drab place. The whole park was surrounded by a black wrought-iron fence. Has a prison feel. No other cars or people ventured into one of the oldest cemeteries in Dallas in weather like this. When Frank hit the dead end, she opened her purse and removed some tissues and a rubber.

  She held it up. “You need this, or did you bring your own?” She slid out of her raincoat and unzipped her jeans.

  “We’ll use yours,” he stammered.

  It’s time to end this. One last look through the rear mirror—nothing. Okay—here goes. While she eased off her jeans, he reached under the seat and grabbed his pistol and badge. This wasn’t a Crip girl. She was just a common streetwalker.

  She watched him retrieve the items without emotion. “What’s this shit?” she asked.

  “You’re busted, babe. Put your jeans back on and your hands behind your back. Time for a ride downtown.”

  She pouted and shrugged. Most whores realized that what they did was a business, and in business, there were times things didn’t go as planned. Getting picked up by Vice every so often came with the territory. She struggled with the tight jeans, and Frank grabbed the handheld. What had happened to his backup? From the side mirror, the reflection of a dark sedan speeding toward them caused him to relax. His team had at last found him. As the car got closer, he noticed there were three black guys in it. None of them looked familiar.

  Crips!

  The girl’s head whirled to the rear and a grin crossed her lips. Her salvation had arrived. Frank had to get out of the truck and find cover. He opened the door, but she grabbed his arm.

  “Where you going, cop?”

  Frank’s stomach flipped and fear crept in. He jerked his arm free and reached for the door handle again as the car closed the distance. She grabbed her purse and reached inside.

  Oh, no. Didn’t check the purse.

  She drew out a knife, a small dagger-looking thing with an orange handle. She lunged. He swatted it away, but she came from a different angle and caught him between the ribs.

  The sensation of being stabbed was one thing Frank had never considered. Numb at first, then searing pain. He pushed away from her and brought up the pistol. She shoved it down with her free hand and lunged again with the knife. The dagger slid into his gut. He again pushed her away and brought the pistol up, firing twice. One round hit her in the lower throat, the seco
nd under the chin. Blood and brains splattered against the passenger window and headliner. With the shots still ringing in his ears and blood blooming on his shirt, Frank checked the side mirror.

  The car with the three Crips slid to a stop. They bailed out and drew their guns. Frank couldn’t stay in the truck, but getting out now was suicide. If he was going to die, he’d do it on his terms. He’d take the bastards with him. Weakness flooded Frank’s limbs. A cold tingle raced through his body. He was passing out. Shock, loss of blood—he didn’t know.

  He opened the door and swung himself to a standing position with one hand braced on the roof of the truck. Shots rang out, but he didn’t feel the impact. The three Crips were clumped together no more than fifteen feet away when he fired. His vision faded with each shot, and by the time the pistol’s slide locked back on an empty magazine, he had collapsed. His last conscious thought: Now they’ll just kill me.

  When Frank came to, he thought he heard the voice of an angel. He cracked open an eye. If this was heaven, the angels weren’t all that attractive. In fact, they looked like Sarge.

  “Assist the officer. Officer down—Nelson Park. I need an ambulance ASAP. Stay with me, Frank.” Sarge pushed something hard against Frank’s stomach with one hand and screamed into the radio with the other.

  The pain hurt like hell. Frank tried shoving Sarge’s hands away, but the more he tried, the harder Sarge pushed.

  “Damn you, Frank, you’re still on duty. You’re not checking out until I say so and I don’t say so.” Sarge’s voice was an octave higher, and his face had twisted into a worried grimace.

  Frank just wanted the pain to stop—to just go to sleep. His eyelids drooped and a cold sensation invaded his legs and arms.

  Big tears ran down Sarge’s cheeks, and he screamed out an order. “By God, you’re not going anywhere, boy. Keep those eyes open. Keep looking at me—stay awake.”

  Frank forced his eyelids up, but he only wanted to sleep. Sirens drew nearer, and he kept his gaze on Sarge. Other voices drifted in along with the fuzzy outline of several men. His face and neck tingled, and the last thing he saw was Sarge standing and talking to someone. Sarge’s mouth moved, but no words came out. Strong hands grabbed Frank. He woke up in ICU with a nurse checking some tube above him. She had nice breasts.

  Sarge came in the next day, after Frank had been moved to a private room. He told a bad luck/good luck story. The bad luck was that Frank’s primary cover vehicle, the one with the eyeball, had been T-boned by another car as they went through an intersection. They’d lost the eyeball on Frank’s truck after that and only figured out where he was after hearing the shots.

  The good luck had to do with the accuracy of the Crips. They’d gotten off five shots and missed Frank every time. Frank had made some good luck of his own. He’d fired all thirteen rounds before passing out. Only three of his bullets missed. And the last good news—a fire department ambulance, on its way to the station, had responded to the officer-down dispatch. It had been only two blocks away when the call went out.

  * * *

  Frank finished his story and swallowed the rest of his wine, slouching in the booth and looked at Rob.

  Rob let out a breath. He’d heard pieces of the story for years, but never the whole thing. “Shit, dude. You are a badass.”

  Frank shook his head. “Not really.” He leaned back in the booth. They stared at each other for a moment.

  “You guys about ready for a refill?” Sarge grabbed the glasses and headed for the bar.

  “What do you mean, ‘Not really’?” Rob asked. “You killed four people after being stabbed twice? In my book, that’s badass.”

  “Yes, I did that, but it was all luck. It couldn’t happen that way again in a million tries.”

  Rob leaned forward and put both palms on the table. “Frank, you’re an idiot. Don’t you see? Luck or no luck, you found yourself in a shit storm and got out of it alive.”

  Sarge slid a fresh wine to Frank and a beer to Rob before retreating to the bar.

  Frank shook his head. “I’m just an analytical thinker who likes solving things. I have no interest in arresting people or getting into shit storms. I just enjoy the mental exercise of investigations.”

  Rob sipped his beer. “Perhaps you could transfer to K-9. You could become a dog whisperer.”

  Frank pursed his lips. “You know, I never really considered that. Great idea.”

  A grin swept across Rob’s lips. “That still doesn’t explain about tonight.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Frank said.

  “What happened?”

  Frank eyed him. “After Nelson Park, I haven’t been the same. It’s true, I killed four people that day, but something inside me died as well. When I pointed my gun at that guy tonight, I froze.”

  Rob paused before asking. “Should you talk to the shrink? I have a mandatory appointment next week.” He laughed. “We could go together. Walk in holding hands. That would freak Dr. Price out.”

  Frank stared into the depths of his wine glass and shook his head. “No, thanks. If this gets out, I’m through as a street detective. They’ll put me behind a desk and let me rot.”

  Rob didn’t want to ask the question, but he had to. “You think this is still the right career for you if you have this problem?”

  Frank sampled the wine and thought about the question.

  “Tell you what,” Rob said. “We’ll figure it out. I know you’re an excellent shot. You can shoot better than me—and I’m damn good. We’ll work up some scenarios where we’ll plan what we’d do in different situations.”

  Frank studied him. “Like what, for instance?”

  Rob thought for a second. “Okay, here’s an example. If one of us ever gets taken hostage, it’s the other’s job to free him.”

  “How?” Frank asked.

  Rob held his forefinger to his head, simulating a gun. “So let’s say I’m the hostage. I say, ‘Do what he says. I don’t want to die.’ The first time the nonhostage—in this case, that’s you—hears those words, ‘I don’t want to die,’ that puts you on notice that I’m going to make a break. The second time I say it, you get ready, and the third time I drop down and you take the shot.”

  “Sounds complicated. What’s the chance of that working?” Frank asked.

  “A lot better than doing nothing.”

  Frank lifted his glass and sipped the wine. “Rob?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t ever get taken hostage.”

  “Well, isn’t this a cute scene.”

  They looked up to find Big Mike towering above them. His tie was loose and a food stain streaked the front of his shirt. He held his balance by grabbing the top of Frank’s seat. “All cozy with a booth for two,” Mike hooted. “Heard you got into a little scrape earlier.”

  Rob’s brow furrowed. This was not a good day to mess with either of them. “Beat it,” Rob said, and motioned with his thumb.

  Mike laughed. “Anyway, just wanted to say what a nice couple you were.” He stumbled down the hall toward the men’s room.

  Rob finished his beer and pushed the glass aside, deciding to be blunt with his partner. “You have to work through this in your own way. Anything I can do, I’ll help, but don’t ignore it. It’ll get you killed.”

  Frank finished his wine. “Thanks. Let’s have one more and call it a night.”

  “I could do another round,” Rob answered.

  Big Mike strolled out of the men’s room, and Frank called to him.

  “Hey, Mike.”

  Mike stopped and whirled around. “What do you want, asshole?”

  Frank shifted in the booth to face him. “Is it true what they say?”

  Mike’s eyes pinched. “What do they say?” he slurred.

  “That you carry a picture of your wife in the buff in your wallet?”

  Rob groaned. He knew exactly where this was going.

  Mike let loose a booming laugh. “No, asshole. I don’t have a naked p
icture of my wife.”

  Frank casually reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. He thumbed through the contents a second before asking, “Would you like to buy one?”

  There was about a three-second delay as Mike processed the information through his alcohol-soaked mind. Then he went bat-shit crazy.

  Mike screamed and lunged at Frank, swinging a big fist at his head. Frank jerked his face out of the way in the nick of time, and the big paw ripped through the sheetrock beside the booth. Mike howled with pain. There was a two-by-four behind the drywall. Rob leaped and wrapped his arms around Mike from behind, but he couldn’t hold him. Sarge joined the fray, cussing and dragging Mike toward the door with Rob still holding on. Frank never moved, watching the brawl with a disinterested expression.

  Sarge yelled at Mike, “Have you lost your frigging mind? Get out of here. One-month suspension.”

  Mike cradled his injured hand and left as Sarge stormed toward Frank.

  “What did you say to him?” Sarge demanded.

  Frank allowed his jaw to drop and he placed his hand over his heart. “Who? Me? Nothing.”

  “Bullshit!” Sarge said. “You said something. I know you. You got inside his brain, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Frank sat back in the booth, resuming his usual slouch. “Besides, only you think that.”

  Sarge’s face was scarlet, and he shook with rage. “What the hell does that mean?”

  Frank brushed a few crumbs of drywall from his jacket. “Only you believe Mike has a brain.”

  A smirk flashed across Sarge’s lips, the anger draining out of him.

  Frank held up his empty glass. “Could we have a little service here?”

  Sarge snatched up the glasses. “Coming right up, Detective Pierce.” Sarge could do sarcasm better than anyone.

  Rob reclaimed his seat and gawked at Frank. “You know Mike probably broke his hand, don’t you?”

  Frank picked at the crumbling drywall, pulling out loose pieces and lining them up on the table. “Yeah, that’s a shame.”

  They laughed as Sarge returned with their refills. Sarge looked from one to the other and pointed at Rob.